


Untouched

by Etaleah



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crying, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hell Trauma, Hugs, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Loneliness, Love, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rejection, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Surprise Kissing, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-09 05:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20505689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etaleah/pseuds/Etaleah
Summary: A demon's life is a lonely one. What Crowley wants is so simple, yet he can never have it.





	Untouched

The grooming was the first thing to go.

Crowley learned this the hard way when, after a long day of doing his part to help set up shop in the basement, he approached Hastur with his wings at full span. That had always been the cue. No one ever had their wings at full span on the ground.

Hastur didn't move. His sullen glare turned up into a smirk. _Is he really so dense he doesn't get it? _Crowley wondered. He turned around and craned his head over his shoulder to give a pointed look. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Hastur asked mockingly.

"My primaries are getting crooked. You down or what?"

"Hah!" Hastur spat on the ground. "Pretty boy wants me to fix up his wings."

Crowley frowned. "Look, if you'd rather not, I'll ask someone else."

"Oh no, I'd be happy to." Hastur patted the moldy, ripped chair in front of him. "Sit. Relax."

"Right," Crowley said. He still had to remind himself not to say thank you. He sat down and held still, hands in his lap.

Hastur went to work, and Crowley exhaled as the day's tension and stress began to fade with every stroke...

For a few seconds.

The hands that had been so gentle seized fistfuls of feathers and tore them clean off, sending Crowley screaming to the floor. He landed hard on his knees and elbows, shaking at the pain. Jeers and roars of laughter surrounded him. A few demons clapped.

"Serves you right," Hastur said smugly. "Wanting a _grooming. _What do you think we are, angels?" The demons booed and hissed.

Crowley got to his feet and hurried to the gates. He'd get up to Earth and groom his wings himself.

* * *

The next thing to go wasn't even one thing. It was several. Claps on the back for a job well done, brushing away loose strands of hair, even handshakes. The last time Crowley had held out his hand, he'd received such a menacing growl that he'd pulled it right back and never held it out again.

Sometime later, he was dropping off a report in one of Hell's more crowded hallways. He tried to stay close to the wall, but his shoulder brushed someone else's. That earned him a fist in the cheek and a profane rant about watching where he was going.

Crowley moved up to Earth and rarely went back.

* * *

Thunder boomed, lightning flashed, rain poured, and Crowley had never been happier. The angel was nothing like he'd expected, and not just because of the wing he'd stretched over Crowley's head. He had _smiled _at Crowley. Laughed with him too. Maybe he was all right after all.

If his response to Crowley stepping closer was to spread out his wings, maybe he'd be okay with a little more.

Crowley reached his hand out.

Aziraphale jumped back, inadvertently (or not?) moving his wing away. Raindrops pelted Crowley's head for the first time.

"Sorry, I, I didn't—" Aziraphale stammered.

"It's fine," Crowley said quietly. He returned the errant hand to his side.

He should have expected that.

* * *

Where there were humans, there were brothels, and once every decade or so, Crowley took advantage of them. Not right away, though, he had a method. He had heard too many tales of these poor girls—and a few boys—who ended up being forced into that line of work, often when they were just kids. Crowley wanted no part of that. So he watched and waited.

When he was absolutely certain a worker had reached adulthood and was exercising their free will, Crowley paid them for at least 3-4 hours, sometimes more. They flashed him their trademark smiles and led him to the finest, most ornately decorated room in the whole place. The second the door closed, they would set to work removing either their clothing or Crowley's, only for the demon to hold up his hand for them to stop.

Fellow Hellians loved to brag about the people they'd impregnated or diseases they'd passed on. Crowley knew they were likely lying (demons didn't get sick and weren't supposed to have reproductive capabilities), but he wasn't about to risk it on the off chance they weren't. Anyway, that wasn't what he wanted.

He gave the humans his request. The reactions ranged from relieved to disappointed to amused, but they always obliged. They lay down next to him and covered his body with pats, pets, caresses, massages, rubs, strokes, and sometimes when he was at his lowest, hugs. One day he handed the worker a hairbrush. She had a gentle hand. His hair had never been neater.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the Fall had never happened.

"Time's up!" the brothel manager would yell on the other side of the door.

The warm hands left him immediately.

Whether his session was 3 hours or 6, it was never long enough.

* * *

The first time Crowley heard a baby cry was the first time he would shift into snake form since Eden. He'd been heading past a row of human abodes on his way to a job he would never arrive at and later forget when he'd heard the wail. A screeching, piercing, pterodactyl shriek of a cry that made him jump and turn around. He cast about until he saw the open window. As always, curiosity steered him off the path.

Watching in his human form would prompt too many questions. Crowley put his arms and legs together and closed his eyes as his limbs melted into one black mass. A few seconds later, he slithered over to the window and carefully propped his head onto the very corner of it. The room was bare except for a crib, with a wriggling, red-faced, and most unhappy infant inside of it.

_Poor bugger can't talk at this stage, _Crowley thought. Couldn't move either, so the only thing they could do when they needed something was scream until either they got it or their lungs gave out on them. _What kind of life would that be? _He couldn't even imagine not being able to miracle something, let alone not having the ability to get up and move. He wondered what the baby wanted. Food, most likely.

"Oh, my love!" A woman, presumably the mother, opened the door and rushed in. "There, there, now, Mumma's here." Crowley held back a hiss as she reached into the crib. She lovingly picked up the baby and held it to her chest. "It's all right. I'm here. I've got you." She patted its back and rocked from side to side, shushing gently.

The baby quieted. _Just like that._

Crowley watched them, feeling something churn and broil inside him. He didn't know what to call it. All he knew was that he needed to slither away now before he did something to that baby he would later receive an award for.

Days later, he was still thinking about it. How simple the baby's need had been, and how easily it had gotten what it wanted. He replayed the mother's caress down the little back over and over and over in his head, imagining how it would have felt.

A year later, after trying and failing to talk himself out of it, Crowley found a square full of people. He took advantage of an abandoned area behind a building and changed his form again. His body shrunk down, down, until he could no longer stand up and was covered only by a cloth around the abdomen. Crowley crawled around the building toward the middle of the square, which took some time, as his new body didn't move terribly fast. When at last he was within earshot of other humans, he sat up.

He wailed.

Screamed.

Sobbed.

No one picked him up.

* * *

Crowley had not a clue what year it was, what country they were in, what they had been wearing, or what the weather was like. Every day was like another, and time was endless. There was no need for him to keep track.

Until it happened.

He had hoped to find the angel here. The nice one who didn't glare at him when he approached.

_Aziraphale_.

Apart from wine and sleep, he was pretty much all Crowley had to look forward to. They had nice conversations sometimes. Never anything more, but conversation was something. Crowley liked to think that maybe someday if he was really careful, it could even turn into a handshake.

Crowley stood on his tiptoes, wishing he could bring out his wings to fly up and get a better view. Aziraphale wore the drabbest clothes, all whites, beiges, and pale browns, and they tended to blend in with the crowds. Which was the goal, of course, but Crowley preferred a splash of style, hence his black outfits with the occasional red.

Just when he was starting to think the angel must not be here, that jovial voice said, "There you are!" He turned around, and he barely had time to take in those bright eyes, that sweet smile, and those flushed cheeks before it happened.

Aziraphale took him by the shoulders and kissed him on the cheeks.

"Hello there. I thought I might see you here."

Crowley couldn't move. He might have stopped breathing.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?"

His hands had been so warm. His lips were gentle.

"Er—Crowley?"

Not even just one cheek or one shoulder, but _both _of them.

"Are you all right?"

It had happened so fast and yet his heart was racing.

"I suppose I may have taken you by surprise, but you see, it's a new greeting the humans are doing these days, and we _do _need to blend in, and…well, I'm sorry if I offended you. Next time I'll be sure to—"

"It's fine," Crowley managed to get out when he could remember how to move his mouth again. His cheeks were tingling. He felt warm all over. "Really. It was—good. Cool. Fine. I mean…I don't mind."

_Please do it again. Don't ever stop._

Aziraphale ducked his head, blushing a bit. "Ah. Good." Clearly desperate to change the subject, he asked, "In the mood for some lunch?"

"Actually," Crowley said, nearly trembling with nerves. "I was wondering if maybe we could make meeting for lunch a regular thing?"

* * *

_Sit on the same side of the table._

_Reach for things at the same time._

_Hand him things._

_Don't let go too quickly._

_Bring him messy food so he'll get it on his face._

_Have a napkin or tissue ready so you can wipe it off._

Crowley had gotten these down to a science.

He met Aziraphale as often as he could now, always appealing to his love of food or cultural entertainment like plays and concerts. They didn't even have to talk about work anymore. Conversation flowed like a river, seamlessly switching from one subject to another. When Crowley was with his angel, he could forget he was a demon, if only for a while.

"What would you say to a walk in the park?" Dinner tonight had been lovely, and over far too soon. Aziraphale loved the sunset, and since it was the middle of summer, it was still light out.

The angel smiled. "That sounds lovely."

They strolled along the grass in silence, the sky turning shades of orange and pink that made Aziraphale smile in awe. Couples were everywhere, doing the same thing they were. Crowley pushed up his shades, grateful they concealed the icy flash that he knew occurred in his eyes whenever they passed a man and a woman holding hands or linking arms.

"Oh, look at that!" Aziraphale pointed to a gap between the trees, where the sun and the purple clouds around it were perfectly visible. "That must be the best view in the city. Let's stay right here for a moment."

Crowley couldn't have cared less about the sunset. His eyes landed on a bench behind them, empty and within the view Aziraphale liked.

"Shall we sit?" he asked, gesturing to it. Hope bloomed in his chest when Aziraphale sat, just to the side of the middle. Trying his best to look casual, Crowley followed him. He glanced to the sun, as if he wasn't at all thinking about what he was doing, and placed himself right up against Aziraphale's side. He closed his eyes behind his shades.

_Warm._

_Soft._

Gone.

He opened his eyes. Turned his head. Aziraphale had shifted, ever so carefully, to the side. His eyes were fixed on the setting sun. His smile was strained. His shoulder stiffened.

Only when Crowley moved to the other side of the bench, next to the cold, hard armrest, did Aziraphale's shoulders relax.

* * *

_She's such an attention whore._

_Don't mind me, I'm just fishing for attention!_

Crowley laughed without smiling. He'd had a lot to do with internet comments and memes like that; he should have been proud. Perhaps he'd made them a tad too honest.

Despite what many liked to believe, it was humans who'd invented social media. However, that didn't stop Crowley from hopping right on to every new one that came along. Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, YouTube, Instagram, Tumblr, LinkedIn, Pinterest, Reddit, WhatsApp; you name it, he was on it. Crowley spent entire days online. People loved him there. He learned to make memes, gifs, photos, videos, and posts that were #mood and #relatable. Much of it went viral, earning him millions of followers and even some ad revenue. And that was before he'd invented the selfie.

Every day, every hour, Crowley could say or share something, and people would react. They would click a button or type a message because of something he had done. They showed Crowley, proved to him, that they knew he was there. Someone, somewhere, was looking at their screen because he was there.

The only way that ever happened in real life was if he paid for it.

* * *

"We can share my bed. It's big enough."

Any other time, Crowley never would have been brave enough to say such a thing. Yet they had stopped Armageddon. Averted a war. Aziraphale had agreed to come home with him, to sit next to him on the bus, to _stay _with him. Life wasn't normal.

_They _weren't normal.

"I don't know," Aziraphale said.

Crowley was too exhausted by the events of the day to argue the point. "It's your choice," he said. "Not much other furniture in the flat though." He lay down on the bed and got comfortable, shutting his eyes. A few seconds later, the bed dipped, and he tried to stay calm as he felt the angel's presence next to him. He knew better than to move any closer, but just having him there put a smile on Crowley's face. He listened to Aziraphale's breathing and let it lull him to sleep.

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the brushing.

Something changed after they returned to their own bodies. Now when Crowley's fingers or shoulders happened to come into contact with Aziraphale's, the angel wasn't so quick to pull away. He seemed relaxed. Comfortable, even. These days Crowley could get away with almost eight whole seconds of brushing.

Next was the pats.

"Come on, dear," Aziraphale would say, and just like that, he'd gently touch Crowley's back, hand, or shoulder in two quick taps. He usually did it when they were about to get up from their seats, and Crowley always made sure to give a little smile. Not too happy; that would scare Aziraphale off. Just enough to let him know that he didn't mind it.

Then their time together would end, and Crowley would spend the night reliving those few seconds.

* * *

None of the human holidays had ever seemed worth celebrating to a celestial pair who had seen many a form of festivity come and go throughout the ages. Yet they weren't opposed to celebrating in _general_, and they realized that the anniversary of not-Armageddon was the perfect opportunity to create their own little holiday.

"Shall we dine at the Ritz again, like we did last year?" Aziraphale asked, already getting a glimmer in his eye at the prospect.

"So long as we can come back here for drinks afterward," Crowley said from his place on the bookshop couch. "It's easier than drinking in public. No one around to ask too many questions about why we have wine from the twenties, you know?"

"Indeed," Aziraphale agreed. Crowley could hardly wait.

He wasted no time preparing. The finest chocolates imported from Switzerland, a beautiful bouquet of flowers he'd grown and screamed at himself, and a bottle of Aziraphale's favorite wine went into the Bentley's backseat. Crowley threw a blanket over them so the angel wouldn't see until it was time. After a "scrumptious" dinner, as he always put it, the two of them were soon back at the bookshop, where Crowley presented his gifts.

"Oh, you sweetheart!" Aziraphale put a hand to his chest. Crowley glared unappreciatively at the word. "Well, you _are_. Flowers and chocolates and wine; you spoil me."

Crowley took a sudden interest in the wall above Aziraphale's head. "Well, er, I figured I should…I mean, it was nice that we didn't…you know…that we're still…" _Fuck_, what was he even trying to say?

Aziraphale beamed and carefully set the gifts down. "I'm glad too, love." He held out his arms.

Crowley froze.

Aziraphale came closer.

_Is he…is he…he is…_

It was even better than Crowley had imagined.

Warmth surged into him like electricity and settled happily inside him as he rested his chin on Aziraphale's broad shoulder and shut his eyes. He took in every detail. Their bellies pressed together, soft and gently moving with their breaths. That familiar scent of books and cocoa, stronger than ever. Aziraphale's back under his arms. Hands on his own back, patting gently…_ohh _one of them was rubbing. Running up and down and _heavens _Crowley was melting. He thought he might collapse. His legs had lost all feeling.

He never wanted it to end.

"Um, well, this is, uh, kind of nice, isn't it?" Aziraphale said. His voice was so close. "I can see why the humans do it."

Crowley didn't answer. His lip was quivering, and his throat was growing tight.

"Lovely," Aziraphale added. Slowly, he loosened his hold and started to pull away. Crowley held on for dear life.

_No, dammit. It can't be over already._

"Crowley?"

He didn't dare open his mouth to speak, or even his eyes to look. Something was bubbling up inside him. Something that had been there a long, long time.

"Crowley, dear, is everything all right?" His hands stopped. Moved away. Crowley's back was cold without them. "Crowley?"

When he didn't answer, Aziraphale tried to back away. He started to gently push Crowley by the shoulders.

That something inside him spilled into a sniff.

"Crowley, what on earth is the matter?"

How the hell was he supposed to answer that? He didn't know how to say it. He'd never known how to say it. That was the whole fucking problem.

"I need—" His voice was thick. "I need…"

"Yes? What do you need?"

Crowley wiped his eyes and hugged Aziraphale even harder. _Please, let him be clever enough to understand._

His angel never failed him.

"This?" Aziraphale asked a moment later. "This is what you need?"

Another shudder and Crowley nodded against his neck, getting it slightly wet. He could barely breathe his throat was so tight. He gasped for air.

"Oh, dear. All right, there now." Aziraphale's hands returned to his back and resumed their movements. He steered them into a seating position on the bed and began to rock Crowley in his arms. "Relax, love. You can have as much as you need."

For the first time in six thousand years, Crowley did relax.

He let go.

* * *

The nights were Crowley's favorite.

Aziraphale always spent them reading his books anyway, and it turned out that it wasn't any trouble at all for him to read one-handed. He dedicated the other to Crowley, who was draped on top of him with his head on his chest. A stroke of the hair or back, a caress on the arm, and the wily old serpent was still and calm. He often fell asleep to the sound of an angelic heartbeat, turning pages, and comforting whispers.

Crowley rarely moved. He focused on the rise and fall of Aziraphale's breath, the softness of his stomach, the warmth of his body beneath him, the weight of his arm on his back. Sometimes Aziraphale would pull the blanket over him or press a kiss to his head. One night Crowley was sitting up with his back to Aziraphale, and the angel surprised him by running his hands down his shoulders, arms, hands, legs, and then slipping back up to massage his stomach.

They did this every night, yet every night was different. Crowley never knew how Aziraphale would show his affections. But he always showed them. Always light, loving, just enough to say:

_I know you're here._

_And you matter to me._


End file.
